the fucking bishop on the Tor and then Verity for the duration. You imagine that? Verity for Solstice? Stringy old bird, no breast.'
Wanda cackled. She adjusted herself on the sofa, picked up an imaginary phone.
'Oh, but darling, you simply must come. No way you can spend Solstice alone in that dreary, dreary house. And the other point, you see, is Dilys – my housekeeper – has gawn down with this awful bug. Verity would you, could you… I've a lovely room, overlooking St John's…'
Wanda beamed. Lecturing Juanita now, pleased with herself. She seemed to have forgotten all about Powys.
'Double whammy, darling. You see, she'll be desperate to come, but she'll feel it her duty to stay in that hellhole – so the clincher will be the housekeeper line. Housemaid mentality, that woman. Got to be doing for people or she doesn't feel jus… justified. In living.'
Powys nodded to Juanita and moved quietly to the door.
'Piece of cake,' Wanda was saying. 'Putty, that woman. Dear little parcel under the Solstice tree. Set of naff hankies with a monogrammed V. Basket of pot-pourri…'
Powys slipped out of the room and back down the thickly carpeted stairs.
He entered Cauldron country. There was a huge drawing room and library, perhaps two rooms knocked into one. A lecture room now, with about thirty chairs in rows. Shelves around the walls held about twice as many books as you could find in Carey and Frayne, but the same kind of stuff. Alphabetically arranged. Under Fortune, he found about forty volumes, some different editions of the same book, under Powys, nothing.
Choosy. Or maybe no male authors.
On a plinth at the far end of the room sat an enormous, rude goddess-figure, not unlike the thing in the Goddess shop window but carved out of oak with bangles and necklaces of mistletoe.
It was all very tidy. No smells of herbs or incense. But for the goddess, it might have been a conference suite in a hotel. There was another door, between bookshelves.
Powys found himself in Wanda's Home Temple.
'It didn't make sense,' he told Juanita outside, it was done up like Tutankhamen's tomb, only more comfortable. Sofas, drapes, nice coloured pillars. A stone altar, fat candles. It felt as phoney as that woman looks. Why did she come here?'
'Fell in love with the whole Avalon bit,' Juanita said. 'That's the official story. The truth is, she went to dry out at a discreet New-Agey sort of health hydro a couple of miles out of town. Ceridwen's friend Jenna worked there, realised that here was a woman with unlimited wealth in need of a Cause. The reason I know this, my reflexologist, Sarah, was doing sessions there two days a week. Jenna wasted no time introducing Wanda to Ceridwen. Who administered a little psychic psychotherapy. Next thing, Wanda's bought this house and is spending a bomb on it.'
'I don't claim to be heavily attuned to this kind of thing,' Powys said. 'But if there's ever been a heavy ritual in that house-'
'It's somewhere else, isn't it? This place is a front.'
Juanita shivered. She looked ill now; Powys was very scared for her.
'When Wanda set up here, this was when The Cauldron really surfaced.' Over her scarf, Juanita's nose was blue. 'It became the goddess group virtually overnight. All kinds of women who'd never been seen at the Assembly Rooms, attended Cauldron meetings and lectures because of Wanda. Including Verity.'
'The lady with the Pixhill papers. I think we need to collect them, don't you?'
'What about Diane?'
'She's not here, Juanita. She may have been brought here last night, but they've taken her somewhere else. Where does Ceridwen live?'
'Tiny little flat near the Glastonbury Experience arcade. She won't be there. Too obvious.' Juanita walked to the end of the mews, where it led into High Street. 'Time is it?'
'Nearly ten-thirty.'
'Diane's been missing for over twelve hours.'
'We could tell the police.'
'She's twenty-seven. We can't say she's missing from home.'
Juanita's teeth were chattering. Her brown eyes were full of sickness.
'You're going home,' Powys said. 'Now.'
The sleet had eased, but it was very cold and the sky behind the tower of St John's foamed with purplish cloud.
FOUR
For the first time, Pel Grainger had his partner with him, the psychotherapist and sociologist Eloise Castell, a slender; blonde with a mid-European accent who never seemed to smile. Verity had seen her at gatherings of The Cauldron, but they had not spoken.
Shivering, despite her body-warmer, Verity followed the two of them up the garden under a hard sky which sporadically spat out sharp, grey fragments of itself. Verity felt an ominous tug on her hip with every step. It could not simply be arthritis; it had come too suddenly.
It felt like Colonel Pixhill's ghost. Urging her to stop them, bring these foolish people back.
But Dr Grainger was jovial and bulging with confidence. He hadn't even knocked at the door; she'd just seen them both walking briskly through the garden gate.
'See, just because people can't drink this water. Verity,' Dr Grainger called back cheerfully, 'that is no reason to seal the well.'
Against the weather, he wore a thick black cloak like the ones church ministers wore for winter funerals.
'But surely,' Verity ventured, hurrying to keep up, 'if anyone was ill, they could then sue us for some enormous amount.'
'Not if there's a sign specifically warning them not to drink. Hell, you seal off an old well, you're blocking an ancient energy flow. Water – and darkness – must not, not ever, be stifled.'
The garden, extending now to little more than three-quarters of an acre, was well tended by Verity close to the house, a small area of lawn which she kept mown and its hedges neatly trimmed. Then it narrowed, a rockery began and so did the wilderness.
'Do be careful, Dr Grainger. Unfortunately, there are thistles and nettles. We did once have a part-time gardener. But when the well had to be sealed and people no longer came to it…'
'You know. Verity, the more I think about this, the more incredible… See, it's clear from the name that this house was built in this location, all those centuries ago, precisely because of the well. No wonder it lost its identity, turned in on itself. You have a scythe or something?'
'I'm sorry, no.'
'That an old spade over there? Would you pass it to me? Thanks.'
He began to slash at the brambles, laying bare what used be a narrow path. Verity, who hadn't been to this end of the garden in many years, seemed to remember there once being cobblestones.
Ms Castell made no attempt to assist – indeed seemed uninterested in what her partner was doing. She paid no heed to Verity either, but gazed beyond the boundary of Meadwell's land to where Glastonbury Tor hung above them, its base bristling with trees, its church tower black as a roosting crow.
Dr Grainger, his back to Verity, looked disturbingly Neanderthal as he swung the spade like an axe, smashing through a clump of tall thistles. Verity clutched her body warmer to her throat. She saw that Ms Castell was watching her now, with a crooked little smile. I don't like you, Verity thought suddenly. She was not one to make snap decisions about people and wondered if this was another warning communicated to her by the Colonel.
Dr Grainger let out a small yip. 'Hey, I think we found it.' He stepped back. 'Goddam, is this a crime or is this
